


Waiting to Feel

by JeanRainier



Category: Original Work
Genre: Blood and Gore, Character Study, Immortality, M/M, One Shot, gore porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:28:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeanRainier/pseuds/JeanRainier
Summary: In a world of metahumanity, a young man cursed with immortality and deadened nerves struggles to feel alive. After failed attempts at casual hookups being enough, he seeks out someone with darker tastes. (A simple one shot, mostly torture/gore porn, with a lot of introspection on the character's feelings and situation.)
Kudos: 2





	Waiting to Feel

The hotel room smelled like cigarette ash and stale liquor.

The red-pink smell of burnt skin still hung around long after the cigarettes were out and the angry burns across his throat and tongue stopped hurting. 

Things felt foggy with a smoke haze. The blackout blinds were drawn and in the isolated dimness everything felt diluted and strange.

“Keep your mouth open.”

He didn’t say anything back. Just exhaled shaky and hard, doing as told as the smell of burnt skin and ashen blood rolled around between them. He stayed put in the floor, fingertips brushing the cheap carpet with a sort of muddled almost-eagerness. He didn’t complain about the way his jeans strained against his erection. Couldn’t entirely feel it. Couldn’t feel the denim, barely understood the restriction. Couldn’t feel if his mouth was really open or shut anymore. Couldn’t feel the carpet texture, how hot the room was. The loose sense of pain was long since faded, until he couldn’t feel the blackened holes in his skin properly anymore.

The stranger at the end of the bed stood, finally bothering to peel off their own jeans.

As clothing was unceremoniously shed and tossed aside, he waited. Watching. Mouth open and half-lidded eyes staring up at a man whose name he didn’t know. Didn’t care to learn it. This was only temporary. Names would only drag them down.

He kept still as the stranger finally stepped closer, abandoning his clothes aside and moving one hand to grip his cock loosely. There was no real conversation. No further orders- and no repeating. He started stroking himself slowly, huffing low breaths into the thick air. Croix kept still. Mouth open. Not feeling it when his toes curled tight and a shudder ran under his skin. He just heard it, when his fingernails bit into the carpet fibers. Eager. Wanting. But he was quiet. As still as he could be.

“You want it?”

A rhetorical question. Still, he groaned low and rocked forward, offering his mouth.

Despite the burns and blood, the stranger didn’t hesitate to let himself go and press forward, sliding all too easily against the wet mess of the blonde’s mouth. He drew back and pressed in gradual, but not slow. Groaning lowly, he pushed forward harder the second time. Back again, then harder. Picking up pace more and more until it was quick and panting. 

Each motion drug against the burns, prying at the edges of the wounded flesh. Pulling apart and summoning more blood. Tearing and sliding effortlessly and without mercy. Even when all he could make out in the room was the hanging smell of cigarette smoke, blood, and sex- even when everything was a dull static hum set against the weak overtone of pain through his mouth-  he obeyed. 

He was still. He kept his mouth open. Serving as nothing more than something to be used by the stranger starting to heavily moan, head tipped back and eyes shut.   
His hips rocked in a sharp pace, roughly fucking the back of his throat without any seeming concern. 

Even with the pain dully reignited, he couldn’t focus on it much.

Things felt distant. Detached and wholly apart from himself. 

The stranger quickened and fell into an erratic kind of measure, until finally both hands entangled in hair. He grasped, groaned, pulled. When he came, it was without any warning.   
He slammed hard as far back as possible and let go, not minding the weak choked noises rising from the blonde. 

Long after he finally let go and backed off, stumbling weakly to sit and lay on the end of the bed, things were quiet.   
Croix just waited. For what, he wasn’t sure. But he waited, and as things passed in silence he debated what to do.

It was clear after another minute of tense quiet, he was better off leaving. There was nothing else here for him.   
He swallowed without feeling, without tasting. Stood. Looked himself over, but no trace of the exchange save for the burns across his throat and tongue remained.

He grabbed his jacket on the way out. Left, with a hand at his throat to hide the damage until he could make it to the lobby bathroom and press a paper towel to the largely sealed up mess.   
He avoided his face in the mirror. Threw the paper towel away. Left the hotel.

Back to the bar, then, to find someone else.

Whatever he was looking for, he wasn’t sure. But he’d keep looking, until the sun came up and the people all went home. Until the next night rolled around and it would be time to try again.   
Until something came along to break it up, he would keep to routine.  


There was no reason to keep doing it.

There was no reason to stop doing it.

Things just were.

So he went on.

  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  


They didn’t ask too many questions, which was nice.

They asked if he was a cop. He wasn’t.

They asked if he was of legal age. He definitely was.

They asked if he was a metahuman. He was.

They asked if he would survive it, heal, be healed- in essence, if they would be a murderer or not.

They wouldn’t. At least not through him.

So a time and place was set. Names traded.

He told them the fake one. The old one, from the '20s-  _Six_.

They said their name was Clause. 

He didn’t care.

They met at what looked to be some kind of old business building. A rental, maybe. A crappy one. 

He waited outside, smoking. Taking in long drags he couldn’t taste or feel, just to have the nicotine in his blood and the menthol smell hanging around. The place smelled like wet garbage, painted up in shades of grey and black. Ugly and boring. It was quiet, though. Some dogs in the distance, some traffic farther away. This place was in the slums, but not in deep enough to have danger at every corner. A little rough, but mostly dilapidated and lonely. 

Suiting, then.

He weakly laughed about it before checking his phone, the time.

He tossed the almost finished cigarette down, put it out with his boot heel.

Headed upstairs.

He’d been the one to put out the listing online, on some obscure blackweb site filled with shocker videos of real executions and vicious crimes. T  
he kind of gut-churning snuff people pretended wasn’t real and certainly wasn’t just flagrantly put up on the internet.

Someone answered after a week, surprising him.

They spoke. Agreed on things.

So there he was.

Second to top floor, third room on the right.

Maybe once it had been an executive office, or something.

Now it was stripped down to bare bones and plaster, no furniture.

Some tarps rolled up in the background, the room half carpet and half cement foundation. 

In the middle of remodeling? Didn’t matter. He didn’t dwell on it.

Clause (presumably) was standing near the back. Staring out the window, looking at what might have been a nice view if the neighborhood wasn’t all rundown shit.   
As it was, he had the view from a mountain of trash, all across the junkyard.

Croix cleared his throat a little at the doorway.

Clause turned around, smiled pleasantly.

Sadists always had the best smiles.

“Six.” He nodded, in greeting.

Croix nodded back, waved a little.

This was awkward, even for him.

But he smiled crooked and softly laughed about it, because what the hell else was there to do?   
Acknowledging it was weird and uneasy broke the ice. Clause laughed a little too, seeming to understand.

“You have everything in order, then?” Clause asked.

“I do.”

He wanted to smoke another cigarette to take the edge off, but here wasn’t the time or place.

Clause nodded then, turning to come closer. Something in the atmosphere shifted in that short pace. A dive from the civil and mundane into something _else_.

A common thing, for people with tastes like theirs.

Submissives had subspace, Dominants had Domspace. Finding those places took time, normally. But the first steps were already being made.   
They’d agreed on the terms for this particular scene long beforehand. Now, it was just fine to relax and let it all play out without over-complicated exchanges and agreements.

By the time Clause was right next to him, his pleasant smile was gone.

His face was hard. Cold. Narrowed green eyes, tan skin. Dark brown hair cut short almost but not quite like a military cut.

God help Croix, if he had any sort of type in the physical sense, it was that.

Reflexively, he swallowed. Clause was distractingly attractive, up close.

Most would have asked or ordered him on his knees.

But this wasn’t like normal scenes, normal exchanges.

He’d been clear about that, in the listing and talks with Clause beforehand.

No holds barred. 

Nothing off limits.

No such thing as ‘too hard’.

He’d outlined it all very clearly, very seriously.

Yet still, he expected Clause like most to be too scared to take advantage.

So when he very much went into things immediately with no holding back, there was a spark. 

A thrill.

Clause grabbed him by the throat in an instant and surged forward, throwing his balance off.

Croix couldn’t feel it but he knew something had to have happened to catch his ankle and throw him off. All in a heartbeat he was thrown down, laying on his back in the floor.   
He blinked up at the ceiling. Surprised. A touch.. something else. He wasn’t sure what to call it. His heart raced a little.

Clause waited, looming over him. 

Working open the buttons of his sleeves before pulling off his suit jacket and folding it over one arm. By the time Croix moved to sit up on his elbows, Clause was casually stepping forward.

It was cold, the way he looked down. Maybe an edge of disgust underneath it when he rose one foot, pressing hard at Croix’s chest before easing up and slamming down in one sharp motion.   
He let it force him back down against the floor with a cough and a gasp.  Clause stood over him, slowly putting more and more weight on his foot, digging the heel of his sharp dress shoe into Croix’s sternum.

Croix was quiet until he could feel the bone ache.

Bruising and straining in protest, threatening to break.

When the pain was distinct and loud through his system, he groaned low and tight.

Clause backed off. Retracted his foot and then moved around the room, folding his jacket up before dropping it to the floor by the doorway. He unbuttoned the first two buttons of his shirt, untucked it, then turned back around.

Croix stayed down, not sitting up a second time.

Which seemed to be the right move, as Clause smiled sharp and vicious. There was a pride in his eyes, but no sense of elation or wildness.   
Clause was ice- sharp and frigid, gorgeously well manicured but without any burning passion or dangerous chaos to him. He was exact. He was orderly.

He walked back over, pressing the toe of one shoe into Croix’s face, nudging him to turn as if for inspection. After just a second of looking down on him, Clause pulled back and kicked- hard.   
The noise was loud, sharp shoe leather into ribs. Nothing broke, but it hurt. Croix grunted, automatically curling up on his side.

Clause gave him a moment. Measuring.

Was this too much? Should he tone it down? Were there second thoughts, now?

He didn’t ask out loud, but it hung in the air as he stood there quietly.

Croix finished briefly coughing, then grinned wide and crooked.

He still wasn’t sure if Clause would have it in him to go all the way to what they’d agreed.

But he was confident in at least something worth his time happening. So he rolled back onto his back. Looked up at Clause. And where the tanned man was all ice and exact, orderly edges- Croix was fire. Wild and alive, burning reckless and uncalculated. He was chaos and messy edges and he  _ laughed _ , even as his ribs hummed in a vague ache.

“You can't kick worth a damn.” Croix spat with a kind of pride.

Clause’s smile was tight and his eyes were hateful.

“Oh, is that so?”

His head canted to the side slightly and he watched the blonde carefully as he moved, raising one foot.

This was not traditional.

This was not just sex.

This was a fight, as agreed.

And while Croix had been in plenty of exchanges wherein he kept still and let the other party destroy him, now was not one such time. So as Clause brought his heel down, Croix reached out. Grabbed, pulled. Clause caught his footing off to the side, landing on the floor rather than the blonde’s stomach where he’d aimed.

Without missing a beat, he reached down, grabbing a fistful of blonde hair.

“Now, now.” He rose. Slammed down, hard, against the concrete floor.

There was a beguiling sort of power in his motions. For a man in a suit, he was deceptively well-built. Even as Clause cracked his skull against the floor, Croix smiled. Even when his eyebrow busted open and blood splattered as Clause rose up and forced him down again, he laughed.

He laughed honest and elated.

Because it hurt.

Clause forced him over onto his stomach in the floor and pulled back on his hair again, wrenching his head back.

“Be a good boy and be still.”

He said that- but he knew how things were going to go.

How they’d both agreed they wanted it to go.

Clause wrapped one hand around the back of Croix’s throat, trying to keep him held down and still. Croix didn’t hesitate to struggle, getting to hands and knees and fighting the hold. Things turned into a match of strength and stubbornness for a time. Despite the very real attempts to fight, in terms of raw strength Clause was simply the greater.

Ultimately, they were both left panting slighting by the time it seemed settled.

Clause had been reduced to his knees, both of which were digging into Croix’s shoulders as he laid still on his back, arms pinned to his sides under Clause’s legs.

“You..” Clause huffed a breath, reaching down.

Croix, stubborn streak a mile wide, tried to lash his head back and forth to avoid the touch.

But it was hopeless, and all too easily Clause grasped at his face and forced him still.

When Clause looked down on him then, smiling proud of himself, Croix had to avert his eyes.

His face burnt, bright red. He couldn’t feel it. Clause could. That was enough.

“Such a wild, stubborn thing you are..”

Clause sighed with a tinge of appreciation.

It was as enthralling as it was repulsive.

“I’m going to let you go, and you’re going to take your clothes off.”

Clause spoke with all the unerring confidence of a man used to commanding absolute control and power.   
Maybe in any other situation, any other person or setting, Croix would have laughed in his face. But the bruises were starting to set, and they were both breathing labored from the fighting. 

It was a good round. Tiring, but not too much. Fun.

Good proof that in an all out match of muscle, Clause could and would beat him.

That force, that power, was enough. 

When he let go and stood up, backing off, Croix sighed.

His back arched off the floor slightly, when he reached down. Gliding hands in an intentionally measured pace down to the hem of his jeans. Button, zipper. He was already hard. Had been well into the fight, when Clause had busted his nose with a sharp right hook.  Clause watched with an unwavering, cool satisfaction. Not saying a word and not moving until everything was laid aside and Croix was bare, exposed as directed.

After a stretch of quiet, Clause moved. Walking over, before stepping partially over the blonde. He stood with the blonde between his feet, and crossed his arms casually behind himself as he looked down. At that angle, it was subtle but clear Clause was hard beneath his tailored suit pants. Croix grinned, prideful and uneven.

“Touch yourself.”  A simple enough order.   
Croix sighed, like it was bothersome.

It was.. embarrassing. But his teeth found purchase in his bottom lip and he turned his head, looking away before obliging. 

Clause just watched for a while, silent and looming.

Every second ate at his pride, burnt at his skin. Until he was painfully hard, flustered nearly to a point of feeling dizzy with blush. It was then, long after his smile was gone and a more self-conscious look took its place, that Clause finally moved.

He walked away, at first. Finally bringing in to play what Croix had assumed he’d be too afraid (too sane, too human) to really do.   
When he came back into line of sight, it was with a neatly wrapped black cloth in hand. He shifted to stand back over the blonde like he had been, then edged back. 

“Don’t stop.” He ordered idly before getting to his knees near Croix’s feet.

The cloth was set out, then unfolded. Rows of knives of different blades and sizes shown off in what lingering afternoon light seeped in from the bay windows.

Clause undid his belt. Set it aside.

He had to be careful, because there would be blood and while he had a change of clothes just in case he still didn’t want to make a particularly undue mess.   
So he was careful and exact when he pulled the first blade from its sheath and set it aside.

As instructed, Croix didn’t stop in the slow, agonizing stokes to himself. Even when it felt too much, too much teasing for too long, he slowed but didn’t stop. Didn’t break the order. Even as toes curled, and a tense whine rose out of him. He kept going.

Clause seemed nearly indifferent, taking his time to feel content with the knives set out before standing back up. He moved away again. Removed his shoes, socks. Huffed slightly at the vague chill in the room before letting his pants drop to the floor. Those were folded, set neatly with his jacket and shirt before boxers finally joined it and he moved back to where he’d been at Croix’s feet.

There were no words. He didn’t speak, but rather directed with hands to part the blonde’s legs and push his hands away from his aching length. Clause took over the space between his legs, making a home for himself there as his hips pressed in close. Croix was cold to the touch, but didn’t react at all when their skin met. He just rolled his hips slightly, impatient.

Clause hummed an amused kind of noise before grabbing tight, sure to leave fingerprint bruises in the blonde’s hips with how hard he held on. He pressed more and more, waiting for Croix to whine in pain or squirm, but the displeasure never came. Rather, his scraped nails slightly against the floor and stared at the ceiling in a hazy way. Not quite subspace. But he seemed.. close to something. Present yet disconnected, drifting in something like a drug haze even though all signs pointed to clarity in the literal sense. He wasn’t high. Just lost in feeling over thought, free to sink into the sensation of it all while Clause handled the more exact details.

He held his end of the deal up well.

The first knife he’d chosen was picked up, run over skin lightly at first.

Again testing waters. Making sure Croix wasn’t going to back out at the last minute.

Slowly, light cuts turned to something longer. Deeper.

Superficial traces turned to papercuts, littering his thighs. Thin trails of blood welled and beads fell before the lines grew deeper. When one particular cut across his stomach went deep enough to split layers of skin open, Clause hesitated. Croix just writhed in the floor, whining desperately. There was no begging for it to stop. No use of any selected safeword. Nothing to call it off or even display displeasure or pain. He just seemed.. happy. Euphoric and squirming with an impatient pleasure.

Clause obliged further with less fear. 

Another cut, then another. Until finally Croix seemed to lose whatever patience he had and made a noise somewhere between a whine and a growl at the back of his throat.

“Either fuck me or don’t.” He hissed around grit teeth. 

Clause smiled, sharp. Amused and dangerous.

Without any further warning or goading needed, one of the thinner knives from the side was plucked up and unceremoniously rammed through the blonde’s shoulder. There was no scream. Right away, he gasped, and the noise hung in his throat. He went quiet, seeming to choke on any noise and simply arch his back off the floor as a shudder rippled through him. Clause didn’t hesitate to do what he’d promised.

Hands ran over cut skin, smearing the blood into a mess down pale flesh. It wasn’t ideal, and it was sure to still be painful. But the blood was the only lubricant he bothered with before lining himself up and trying to force himself inside. Croix didn’t recoil, didn’t fight it. He just moaned tight and whining as Clause struggled with his body, pressing down with one palm against his stomach to summon more blood, as if that would make it easier. It took some fighting, more blood than he’d anticipated, and some time to get the blonde to relax enough. But after a few minutes of almost-awkward struggling, he managed to force himself inside.

Croix shivered, tightening hard around Clause once he was pushed in deep.

He had to halt for a moment, to not be pushed over the edge too soon. But it was beautiful.

This strange blonde young man, sprawled beneath him. Cut open and oozing onto the cement floor, whining with aching impatience and not an ounce of pain present through him. Even when every move he made gave Clause brief glimpses of something more than dark red blood at his stomach. A half-second view of something marbled pink and swelling. Flesh. Raw.

He wanted it. Wanted more of it.

And here was this strange little thing, promising him he could have it all..

His restraint slipped some, when he realized more fully that Six was not going to tell him to stop.

He grasped at the knife in the blonde’s shoulder and twisted, earning at last a half-pained noise more of surprise than anything.   
Clause ripped the blade out. Blood pulsed and the younger whined, writhing desperate and horny. He brought the knife down harder, into the opposite shoulder. 

Croix gasped, and rather than a scream what left him in a loud roll was more moan than anything. Clause didn’t hesitate to go full tilt once it was clear things were fine. Another knife, one of the smaller ones, found its way through his hand, breaking apart tendons and muscles until there was nothing but pain blaring.

In the sea of numb and nothing, he felt.

Against the blended greys of the city, he was pale and red.

Fighting back the smell of garbage and plaster and menthol, there was blood.

He felt alive, when Clause forced one of the larger cutting knives into his stomach.

It was left there as Clause finally, a little desperately, started to move his hips.

Blood-slick hands found his hip bones and grasped again with bruising force as he finally started to fuck the poor blonde, still painfully hard and eager. He’d been patient. He’d been good. This was the reward. Clause fucked him hard into the floor, uncaring for any pretend at mercy or compassion. He forced himself back and forward harsh and deep, rending and dragging careless and heated. Things turned to fire and agony and sex and the blend of sensation stopped making sense as any one thing.

Croix was all too eager to moan loud and scraping, raw.

Where normally his nerves were dull and dead, there was finally a ringing through his veins. A dizzied liveliness around the blood loss of burning, tearing, sharp agony. Blinding pain that made his eyes water and took his breath away.

He was crying, when Clause groaned desperate and deep and grasped the knife in his shoulder. Tearing it downward for leverage, he fucked harder and Croix’s body refused to stop shivering. Ah.. was this shock? He wasn’t sure anymore. His heart was racing, thundering in his ears. Everything felt like a burning, teasing, blinding pleasure and he wasn’t sure anymore if he’d managed to cum or was still teasing on the edge of it. He knew only what he felt, overpoweringly bright and beautiful through his system.

Clause finally cut to the main bulk of what they’d agreed on. The idea that had sparked it all. He reached for the blade in the blonde’s stomach and tore unkind and uncaring. Croix made a noise, wet and choking and all at once something that sounded hurt and elated. Clause reached inside. Against the wetness and the surprising heat, where blood boiled and everything was a beautiful mess of red-pinks. Bright red blood and marbled flesh, oozing wet and sticking half-dried to parts of his arm.

He reached and sought even as Croix finally, finally screamed in what sounded impossibly like an ecstatic sort of pain.   
Clause dug, pushing and tearing vicious at all he felt. Until he rocked his hips forward and his hand found himself among the mess.

There was a sputter of french out of the blonde.

Clause almost laughed. He had no idea the strange little thing was foreign. But it was charming, blending well with the choking smell of blood and the wet noises of sex and hurt moans raising out of the other.

Croix could feel everything all too bright.

His gut burned like stars, a super nova rending him in half. His heart raced so fast and heavy he felt deafened by it. His breath was stolen. Pinpoints across his body burnt in pain, forming constellations through his flesh where the knives tore. 

Clause kept fucking him raw and merciless into the floor, grasping at himself through the mess of insides until every thrust left him jerking into his own hand. Blood had long since ran across the floor between them, and everything started to swirl.

Maybe, if knives hadn’t long since rendered his hands and arms useless, Croix would have moved. Would have run fingers through Clause’s hair, interlaced hands behind his neck. Maybe he would have kissed the man. Loved him. Cared for him like nothing else in the world. Because in those moments, Clause was killing him. Clause was lighting every fiber of him up in beautiful, bright glory. Illuminating his body in an undeniable, loud agony.

Croix  **felt** .

“Look at me.” Clause rasped, desperate and ragged.

Croix didn’t feel it, when the man grasped at his face and turned his head to look upwards. He wasn’t wholly aware of it when Clause looked into the dying light of his eyes, rocking forward staccato and wanting.

Things were fading, fast, and the wash of sensation was as fleeting as ever.

Clause came hard, in essence watching the blonde die.

Somewhere in the mix at a point he hadn’t tracked, Croix had found release among the blood and suffering. Things ended in a slaughtered mess.

As agreed, Clause withdrew once it was all said and done.

He found a shower somewhere (god only knew where) and redressed in clothes carefully free of any blood.

Croix came to closer to dawn than midnight, staring at the ceiling as Clause loomed in the doorway.

There was a certain childlike fascination in his eyes. 

Croix sat up. Looked down somewhat on reflex.

His stomach was closed. His body smooth and healed, with no trace of the exchange save for the long since congealed and dried blood across the floor. It was a godawful mess. But he’d promised to handle clean up, so he would.

“You’re quite the strange thing, Six.” Clause hummed from the doorway.

Their exchange was over. He’d done what he’d agreed to. This was goodbye, now that he had verification he was not in fact a murderer. Technically.

Croix just huffed a weak little laugh and moved to stand. 

He didn’t really say anything.

“If you’re in the country again, email me.”

Clause dipped out of sight. The sound of his sharp dress shoes clicking down the hall rang for a while. 

Croix sighed.

He went to collect his clothes.

He needed a shower.

He had no plans of ever contacting Clause again.


End file.
